


Mr. Nothing's Got A Lot

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: 1000-3000 words, Banter, Blow Job, Canon Character of Color, Character of Color, Comment Fic, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e08 Ambush, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Character of Color, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:23:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Give me explosions and poorly-executed plot any day."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Nothing's Got A Lot

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene for Episode 1.08, written for [](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**oxoniensis**](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/)' [Porn Battle: Dressed to the Nines](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/25077.html?format=light). The title is a lyric from "Push and Pull" by Nikki Costa.

There's this look on G's face, something vaguely defensive, almost comically humorous, when Dom picks up the cuffs. Sam deftly insinuates himself between them, a hand on Dom's shoulder, the other plucking the restraints from Dom's hand with a smile.

"I got it," Sam says, squeezing Dom's shoulder.

Dom looks up, his eyes on Sam like he knows he missed something but doesn't exactly know what, but he nods in response. The guy's learning. He'll be a good agent one day so long as he doesn't lose that perceptiveness. Sam squeezes Dom's shoulder again and then lets him go, turning to sit on the bench across from G.

G's eyes are on Sam like he's been waiting a while. "So how long have you been harboring this kink?" he asks, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile, but the smile is tight as he puts his hands together, holding them up for Sam.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, G," Sam says with an easy nonchalance. He closes his fingers around G's left wrist, rubbing his thumb over the knob of bone, the tips of his fingers stroking the skin where G's pulse flutters wildly like a spooked bird. He lets his fingers linger there, warm and constant, while G talks.

"I thought I knew the important stuff at least. How can we have a good working relationship if I don't know the important stuff?" G asks, his eyes shifting to the cuffs dangling in Sam's right hand.

Sam feels a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth but tries to suppress it when he looks at G and snaps the first cuff on, testing to make sure it's not too tight. "A working relationship? Is that what this is?"

"For now." G's shoulders roll up into a shrug, his eyes darting down at the pull of the cuff. "Your courtship skills suck. Not that I hold it against you." Sam shakes his head, the smile winning free from his control as G happily continues, "You should know by now that I'm a fast food kind of guy, Sam. Give me explosions and poorly-executed plot any day."

Sam snaps on the second cuff and then smoothes the tips of his fingers up the inside of G's wrist. "You have to take a break from work some time, G."

"Was that a dig at my professionalism?" G asks, dropping his hands, tugging Sam's down with them. "Because I think my record proves that my plans are above and beyond genius level."

"Not including this plan."

"Follow my lead, and this'll be easy. As pie." G's expression turns reflective, his head cocked to the right. "Maybe I should ask your mom to bake me one."

Sam's trying not to smile, but he can feel his mouth lifting anyway, bigger than before, and shakes his head, conceding this round because Kensi should be bringing Reilly any minute. Before he can slide into place, though, G hooks a leg around Sam's calf and tugs. Sam maintains his balance, a hand braced on the truck interior, one brow raised at G.

"Don't forget your vest," G says.

"I won't forget the vest, G." Sam steps back, drops his hand to G's shoulder, and squeezes. "Don't forget to hit center mass."

G's heel slides down Sam's calf. "I won't."

~*~

"So I think Dom has a crush on you," G says as he pulls a beer out of the fridge. "He's a little young for you, but he's cute. In that nerdy college boy kind of way." G leans his shoulder against the fridge, loosely holding the neck of the bottle, wearing one of his faux casual smiles.

Sam's almost tempted to go for an exasperated look, but he decides that it's not worth taking his eyes off the knife that he's using to slice up the onion for the stir fry. "Maybe I'll ask him out."

"You think he's your type?"

Sam glances at G then, feeling the muscles around his mouth twitching into a smile that he gives in to because there's no use fighting it and there are bigger, more important battles that he can — and will — fight tooth and nail for. He scoops up the onions and drops them into the wok. "You think you know what my type is?"

"Yeah. You go for the typical bad boy — or lady — that can shake up your life."

Sam shakes his head because sometimes ... "My life doesn't need shaking, G. Being a SEAL and now an NCIS agent does enough of that for me."

G shrugs and takes a pull from his beer, and Sam isn't looking at the bob of his Adam's apple or thinking about the way G's mouth will taste, the way it always tastes — G nothing but raw edges — right after a case. "You try to play tough, but you're a softie. Even with your tattoos and SEAL training."

"How about I—"

"Show me tough?" G grins like he's one a point in a game. "Maybe later. No cuffs, though."

~*~

Sam and G are lounging on the couch a few hours later, full from the meal, languid from their beers, halfheartedly watching a basketball game when G leans in, brushing the corner of Sam's mouth with a soft kiss. He rubs his lips over the dimple that appears when Sam smiles, glancing at G out of the corners of his eyes.

"I thought we had a professional, working relationship," Sam says, tipping his head back and casually finishing off the remainder of his beer, which puts G's mouth at Sam's ear, G's breath puffing warm against the thin skin.

"We do," G says before he traces a damp line up the shell of Sam's ear with the tip of his tongue. "When we're on the job." G grips Sam's thigh and slides closer, fingertips rubbing the inseam of Sam's jeans. "And don't most people shut up when they're being kissed?"

"Only if it's a good one."

"Are you dissing on my oral skills now, Sam?" G skims his hand higher until the tips of his fingers trace the growing swell at Sam's crotch. "That's a low blow. Even for you."

Sam wants to laugh, but a groan spills past his lips instead when G grinds the heel of his palm against Sam's groin, and talking seems like a task better saved for later. So Sam shifts, pressing himself more firmly into G's hand, and silences whatever smartass remark G was going to make next with a kiss. He licks slowly, teasing apart G's lips with the patient press of his tongue until he can curl it into the soft heat of G's mouth, and it tastes like the hops from the beer with a slight after-flavor of the spices he used in the stir fry. It's G, rough-hewn and unconventional, his skin prickling from the rasp of Sam's nails up his sides. Sam coasts his hands up, past the scars. He can count them, has counted them, kissed them and licked them and bitten them, but tonight's not the night for that. He slides his hands to G's back, following the ridge of G's shoulder blades, and pulls him closer. G makes a sound, low in his throat, and pushes back, with his hands, his tongue, pushes harder until Sam gives in, sprawling on his back while G's fingers work at the button and zipper of his pants.

"Shouldn't we move this to the bedroom?" Sam asks even as he obediently lifts his hips so G can tug off his jeans.

G smiles up Sam's body, his fingers wrapped around Sam's cock, hard and aching in anticipation of whatever G decides to do next. "Are you always so vanilla, Sam?"

Sam huffs a laugh, about to retort, but G capitalizes on the moment and stretches his lips around the head of Sam's dick, the tip of his tongue dipping into the groove between the shaft and head. Whatever Sam was going to say is lost in a shocked moan as he digs his fingers into the sofa cushions to keep from tangling them into G's hair. Sam drops his head onto the armrest, lets his leg fall off the couch, and watches G take him deeper, slow and steady, G's tongue making Sam's dick throb and his muscles jump beneath his skin. The look on G's face is intent and focused, the liquid slide of G's mouth making Sam's heart work double time like it's trying to outrace the quick bob of G's head.

When G screws his fist in a tight twist, Sam closes his eyes, feels his toes curling as a breathless moan escapes his lips. He tries to suck in a quick breath, but G doesn't let up, not with his tongue or the fist he has wrapped around Sam's cock or the dig of his fingers in Sam's thighs until Sam is shuddering, rocking his hips — carefully, gently, slowly, letting G maintain the pace — breathing harsh and heavy. Sam detaches his fingers from the couch cushion and strokes them over G's hand on his thigh, keeping his touch light even though his hands are shaking from wanting that little bit extra, that tight grab, the holding on. Then G has Sam's fingers clenching and unclenching uselessly in the air when G swirls his tongue around the head of Sam's dick just before he sucks.

Sam taps G's hand, a quick, insistent one, two, three as he struggles to hold off, the pleasure locked tight in his gut. G pulls off his cock, jacking it fast and tight, and Sam lets go, jerking up his shirt at the last minute, and spills over G's fingers, striping his own stomach, his hips lifting off the couch in a wild, desperate thrust for that last, sweet zing of pleasure that leaves his head spinning. When Sam collapses back onto the couch, his breathing is ragged and his head is buzzing.

"It's your turn to get the towel," G says.

Sam cracks open his eyes to watch G prop his elbow on the back of the couch, hand held high. Sam doesn't feel like moving, save for the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, so he doesn't. "Afterglow, G. You ever heard of it?"

"I dunno. Is it like a glow stick?" G asks, tone cheeky.

With a short laugh, Sam grips the back of the couch, pulls himself up, and decides that the best response is to topple G onto his back. He leans in to mouth the edge of G's jaw, following it with a scrape of his teeth over G's skin.

"Is this supposed to be a hands on demonstration?" G asks, canting his hips and grinding against Sam's thigh.

Sam hastily unbuttons G's jeans, can't get them open fast enough before he's snaking a hand inside, skimming his fingers over the waistband of G's underwear. "What do you think, G?"

"I think I'm going to get your come all over the couch."

Thumbs tucked into G's jeans, Sam glances up, and G wiggles his fingers like a flirty hello, but Sam is too busy pulling down G's jeans, and then he's too busy staring at G's cock, flushed and swollen, leaking pre-come at the tip. Sam licks his lips. "Don't worry about it." Then he slides his tongue over the tip of G's dick, softly moaning at the heavy taste of G on his tongue. "I know a few tricks."

G shifts, his heel pressing into Sam's back, urging him closer. "Is that something else your mother taught you?"

Sam looks up, and he shouldn't be smiling, but he is. "What have I told you about bringing up my mother when we're having sex?"

G stares back, and Sam would almost call his expression coy, except G Callen doesn't do coy. Except when he does. "Does that fall under the 'don't' tab of your overly complicated filing system?"

Sam lazily strokes G's dick. "Yeah."

"Maybe you should write me a note, so I'll—"

"Shut up, G." This time, Sam gets the last word.


End file.
